Renaissance of the Mind
by Etimire T
Summary: Senator Thomas Jackson has spent the better part of his career swaying the public opinion to the belief that reincarnated souls are villainous, despicable people who are being forced to try again. But after a chance meeting with a familiar young man, Thomas's worst fears begin to come to life. With decades of his own memories resurfacing, what is he supposed to do now?
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people. Or any people at all, you know. I also know very little about politics, which should make this 'fun'. Anyway.**_

Chapter 1

It was a Tuesday when he saw him.

Tuesday. Thomas had always found Tuesdays to be remarkably forgettable. Remarkably dull. Remarkably predictable. But this wasn't something anyone could predict.

He would wake up to the sound of his blaring alarm, force himself to stand, guzzle coffee, dress, pick up whatever project papers he was working on the night before, click his briefcase shut, and force himself into the misty morning chill.

He'd walk to the subway and ride the empty trains across D.C. The florescent lights would flicker and automated voices would give cheerily loud announcements. Most people would be getting in the next round the subway took. He'd exit, scan his key card, jog up the stairs with his coffee in hand (the second cup at this point) and exit into the street.

People would be milling around now. Men in business suits like himself with red or blue ties. Women in pantsuits and pencil skirts and ponytails. Not many tourists yet. Thankfully.

He'd adjust his grip on his suitcase and nod a hello as he came closer to his workplace. People recognized him usually at this time. He'd give a sort of wave while still holding his coffee, and wish suddenly he could figure out how everyone else looked so confident and determined at this godforsaken hour.

A wind picked up as he jogged the stairs, and cherry blossoms slipped and slid around those marble steps and danced through the air.

It wasn't humid yet. This was a blessing.

He pushed open the glass doors with his shoulder, entered, and met the eyes of the security guard that was always standing at the checkpoint.

"Senator."

"Mr. Smith. A pleasure to see you again." Thomas was usually much wittier. But it was five o' seven in the morning, and his wit just didn't catch up until at least nine.

The man nodded once. "Cell phone, wallet, briefcase in the box. Pass through."

Thomas rolled his eyes. Every morning. Every freaking morning. You would think that if he was going to bring a bomb to work, after seven years of working his butt off, he would have broken and done it already. But whatever. He passed through the metal detector, and it flashed red.

"Wearing a belt?"

"Always." Thomas sighed.

Mr. Smith grunted, handed him his box of items, and Thomas, now, would have left him without a glance back (well maybe an obnoxious wink if he was feeling chipper). He stepped into the tall, marble room, mind already buzzing with the projects he needed to complete today.

There was a speech he would be attending (and then speaking at. Oh joy.) concerning the rights of the News over Olds. He was going to coffee with an up-and-coming senator from some backwater state which started with a W or something he thought. After that, there was paperwork to do (which hopefully his secretary would have in order) and then he was appearing at a school function to promote education in lower income areas. As he crossed, his secretary, a competent young woman with a blonde ponytail, raced up to him with a clipboard and a multitude of words. "Sir, there's been a hold on the school trip today…"

On this usual, typical, dull, Tuesday, Thomas would have walked with sharp steps across this main hall, and entered the busy winding buisness that his people had taken residence in. He would have listened as carefully as he could to Ms. Mariah's words.

But instead, he found himself frozen in the middle of the hall. His ears popped like a great pressure had been released, and he found himself turning back, like a magnet, toward the front door.

Mariah frowned at him. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Fine," he mumbled. There was a peculiar itch just behind his collarbone, and he loosened his tie.

Beyond those glass doors, a scruffy young man in a cheap suit pressed his hands on the glass to frame his face, and peered inside. His eyes darted back and forth, searching.

Cocking his head, Thomas stared at him, a peculiar mix of revulsion and amusement settling inside of him along with a healthy dose of nausea.

The world spun, and he stumbled a step. Suddenly, Mariah's hand was at his elbow. "Sir, have you been sleeping? How about you sit down for a moment, you look like you're going to be sick. I hear there's a bug going around anyhow and-"

He held up a hand to quiet her as she led him to a bench. He sat down and risked another glance at the man outside.

The man pulled open the door and walked hastily toward the security checkpoint.

They were too far away and there were too many people walking around to hear him clearly, but his body language was clear enough.

He wanted to get inside. Now. He waved his arms and ran a panicked hand through his hair. _Thomas,_ Thomas read on his lips. He blinked.

Thomas stood and Mariah stood with him. "Sir?"

"I'm fine, Mariah. Just need to drink some water, I think." He continued to stare at the man. Didn't he know him? Was he a reporter? An actor? Someone he knew as a kid?

"What are you looking at?"

Thomas nodded toward the man, who was getting into more and more of a heated discussion with the security guard. Not everyone could just waltz in here. "Have you seen that man before?"

Mariah chewed her lip and squinted in the direction Thomas nodded. She wrinkled her nose. "The fashion disaster at twelve o'clock? No. Why?"

Thomas shrugged. "I just…" He pinched between his eyes. "You know, never mind. I need water. Let's get water."

He turned just as the man was getting frantic. Their voices were louder now. Mr. Smith was obviously finished talking."Sir you can't-!"

"You don't understand! I need to know if he-"

"I'm going to have to ask you to _leave._ Or you will be forcefully removed from the-"

"No, no! Please! _THOMAS_!"

Thomas froze. So did most of the crowd. Everyone turned to stare at the man.

And when Thomas turned to do the same, the man was staring directly at him.

Mariah cursed quietly.

Everyone was watching now. He couldn't just run away.

So like a good politician, he slapped on a smile and retraced his steps so that he was standing on the opposite side of the checkpoint. At his action, most people lost interest and went back to their business. Mr. Smith glared at Thomas disapprovingly, and the man put his hands in the air as if to placate them both. He was staring with something like awe and horror at Thomas. " _You're_ Thomas? I-I thought the senator's name was Tom."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Short for Thomas. I'm sorry, who are you?"

The man's face fell. "You- he was supposed to- I thought he just _worked here_. I didn't think you-"

"Again, sir. You have three seconds to speak and then I am going to go to my meeting, which I will be late to in," He looked at his watch. "five minutes."

The man opened and closed his mouth. "I-I-"

"Two Seconds-"

"My name is Alexander- Alex- Miranda," he sputtered. "You don't know me, obviously, but I know you. I-I remember you."

Thomas frowned. "You… remember me."

It clicked suddenly, and he crossed his arms. "Oh. Okay, I see how it is. Look, who put you up to this? It's not worth outing yourself, believe me. When this bill passes, you are gonna want to be anywhere but in this office. It's a clever ruse, though. I'll give you that."

Alex blinked rapidly. "W-what?"

"It would make a great newspaper heading. Really. 'Anti Old Soul Senator Thomas Jackson is an Old Soul Himself!' Or something like that." He rolled his eyes. "Don't try to play with me, kid. You will lose. Whatever someone is offering you, do the smart thing and get out of here."

Alex was speechless and distinctly offended. "You think…? You think I'm trying to trick you? No one is _paying_ me!"

" _Riiight_."

Alex continued to stare. He shook his head slowly, wonderingly. "Dear Lord, Thomas."

Thomas scowled. "It's Senator Jackson, actually." He glanced at Mr. Smith. "Get him out of here."

Alex just stepped back. "Yo!" he grumbled. "I'm leaving. No need to get all handsy." He spun. The glass doors shut behind him.

With a final eye roll, Thomas turned his back and walked away, that same spot beneath his collarbone itching again. He exhaled and forced himself to tighten his tie. Crazy creep.

What a horrible start to the day.

When he reached the hallway to his office, Mariah was standing there with a bottle of water. "Here, sir."

Thomas smiled gratefully. "Thankya, missi, you're a lamb."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Uh… I'm a what?"

Thomas screwed open the bottle and drained it. He smacked his lips. "So. What did I miss?"

* * *

AN: *cackles* what am i doing.

Whatever. Please leave a **_review_** if you feel so inclined!


	2. Chapter 2

2

Thomas straightened his tie. Blue today. There were tiny shot glasses in the print, but they were so small, cameras wouldn't pick them up. People wouldn't even notice. It was one of those small amusements he liked to grant himself. Like wearing rainbow socks for the heck of it. Which… he was also doing.

What would people think if he showed up in a purple tie, hmm? He chuckled. Or a magenta suit. _Magenta._ He liked that word. Yeah, that would cause more stir than his actual speech.

On second thought, maybe wearing a magenta suit would be good for publicity.

He chewed his lip and dismissed the thought. Ridiculous. Carefully, he smoothed down the coat and tie and handkerchief in his breast pocket. Thomas was used to seeing his own face. It was on all of his publicity efforts. He was known for the near cheshire grin that he often wore.

He wasn't smiling now. As he tightened the tie in the mirror of the hotel room, he frowned at his eyes. There was something… different. He couldn't place it. He leaned in closer, still fixing the tie, and heart did a very small flip in his chest. He jerked back.

A flicker of color.

Color that did _not_ belong in his eyes.

No, it was the lighting. That was all.

He smiled easily at himself. "Creepy-creep's gettin to ya, ey, Jackson?" He gave up with the tie, ran a hand over his hair, and nodded at his reflection with as much confidence as he could.

He felt like a train wreck.

He hated public speaking. Like, he'd do it because he had Things to Say™. But that didn't mean he enjoyed it. At all. And if another person told him it helped social anxiety to imagine everyone naked, he might kill them.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

"Sir, the car has arrived."

"Thank you, Mariah."

It seemed only seconds later he was on the podium. He'd popped a few aspirin for his lingering headache and taken care to drink all the water Mariah had anxiously thrust into his hands.

Lights flashing in his eyes. Reporters and cameras all staring with those same gaping, empty gazes. He was going to wake them up today. This was his chance. His first _real_ chance to speak to the public about his beliefs.

He could not risk any distractions.

His stomach flipped over and over. His mouth was dry. Taking a sip of water, he cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. This was important.

With a nod, he began.

"Science has proven, and people has testified far too often, the existence of reincarnation."

The crowd rumbled.

He continued on. "It is a real and present phenomenon that _cannot_ be ignored. Unfortunately, it is never the angels of the past who are gifted to us once more. Never. It has been documented time and time again, that only individuals who have done great evil in their previous lifetime, are forced to start over. They are murders and thieves, slavers and rapists and cannibals. I do not wish to alarm you, but in the same breath, I _do_ wish to alarm you. Old souls, studies have shows _continue_ their way of life in _our_ world. There are documented instances of Judas Iscariot, Attila the Hun, several egyptian Pharaohs, all going about their new lives making the same mistakes over and over again."

Everyone was silent. Waiting. The large conference hall was suddenly too hot. But he had to keep going.

"When I was a child, there was a man who passed through the hotel my mother and I were staying in at the time. He told us idly that in a past life his name was Carl." A few people chuckled, and Thomas smiled as well. It was an innocent name. "He neglected to mention his last name until he was forced to divulge it in the court of law. We learned of it later on the television." Less chuckles now. "He was found guilty of arsony and seven murders as far as we can prove. My family and I were thankfully spared such atrocity. It still stuck with me and always will. That man never gave up with life of crime. Not after his first death when he was Carl Panzram."

There was a negligible response to the name, as he had expected. "I imagine this name means little to you. But a bit of research will easily turn him up. Mr. Panzram claimed to be guilty of 21 murders. His last words are ones I will never forget. _I wish the whole human race had one neck and I had my hands around it._

Thomas's hands were shaking. "Does this not disturb you?! He was rotten to the core and no amount of rebirthing could cleanse that from him!

You understand then, why I am concerned that there are so few regulations regarding Old souls. They, _at the minimum,_ should be monitored. They cannot be allowed to roam _our_ time, dirtying it with their atrocities! The death penalty is not a permanent sentence, people! It is a get out of jail free card! And we cannot _we cannot_ allow this to continue unchecked any longer!" He forced himself to inhale and exhale, holding tight to the podium. There. He'd said it. The news reporters stared up at him in horror or awe or something in between. He swiped his dry lips.

"That is all I have to say. Any questions?"

The room exploded.

* * *

"You are a freaking idiot, Alex." Alex watched the television with dead eyes and downed the last of his drink. The glass clinked just a bit too hard on the table, and he fumbled to catch it before it fell. "A freaking idiot." His forehead clunked on that same counter.

"Well, you said it, kiddo, not me."

Wonderful. Lazily, Alex's eyes trailed away from the TV toward the bar tender. She was a large woman with a pig like nose and black hair that was pulled into a loose bun. He glared at her with a tired sort of irritation. "Why do I come back to this bar, Mia?"

"Because you detest yourself and insults are familiar too you."

Alex snorted into his cup. "You should be a psychiatrist. Make hecka more money than minding this sh-"

Now she glared at him. "You say what you were about to say, and I will stick that cup up yours."

Alex snickered and laid his head on his arms. He wanted to do nothing more at the moment than sleep there. On the counter.

It was quiet in this dark bar in Queens, New York. People murmured and the sound of pool balls cracking against each other was the only real disturbing noise. The tv behind the counter was muted and the words scrolled along the bottom. Alex didn't know a whole lot about quiet. His mind was always rushing around like a freight train and it was just plain exhausting.

Alex wanted to be sick reading the words on the television.

Then again, that could be the alcohol.

"Are you alright, Alexander?"

Alex blinked up. He waved her away. "Fine, yeah. I'm fine."  
A raised eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. "I… I just… did something stupid today. And I shouldn't have and I should have thought about it beforehand, but I… I dunno. Sometimes I think I do things before I even realize what exactly I'm doing. You know what I mean?"

Mia squinted at him. "You mean that you are an idiot."

Alex smirked. "Exactly."

The TV was picking up again. The images moving quicker. And Alex's eyes snapped to it against his will.

"What do you think about all that? All the 'old soul' stuff." He nodded his cup toward the television. She filled that cup again and the yellow liquid bubbled.

Mia turned around and scowled at the man on the television. "Ignorance. All ignorance. He is trying to do good and doesn't know how."

Alex chuckled. "Sounds about right." He swirled his drink, enjoying the pleasant buzz behind his ears. Just enough to take the edge off of… everything. "But what do you think, though?"

Mia considered his question. She wiped the counter a time and then again, and she poured some stranger a glass of something. "I think," she started as she came back over, "that some people are getting second chances. And I think _some_ of them learn from them." She narrowed her eyes on him. "Are you learning from it?"

He choked and quickly set down his drink. His eyes widened, and he suddenly couldn't form words properly. "I'm-I'm not a-"

She shook her head disapprovingly. "Don't lie to me, boy. I can see it." She pointed at him with a sad sort of smile. "It's in the eyes."

He rolled those eyes. He supposed violet-blue-sometimes-weirdly-green-or-brown-depending-on-the-lighting colored eyes wasn't exactly inconspicuous on a mixed race Puerto Rican.

"I don't mean the color," she said.

Sometimes he wondered if the woman could read his mind.

"Then what do you-"  
Mia shrugged. "There's a… a deepness. Eyes like an old man on a young one. If you pay attention."

That shouldn't have made sense, but it did. It made perfect sense.

Alex shrugged. Sipped his drink. "I wasn't that old. Before, I mean. 47. I think. It gets kinda blurry when I drink."

Mia seemed to have given up scrubbing her eternally stained bar. She watched him carefully out of the edge of her vision as she poured drinks and shooed people to the other edge of the bar.

Alex drummed his fingers on the wood.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So, are you going to tell me or are you going to sit there sorry for yourself all night?"

Alex's head shot up. He huffed. "Well in light of this recent broadcast," he spat, "I probably should invest in contact lenses instead of-"

"Oh hush." She slapped his shoulder with the wet rag. "You are young. You are new again. And I am an old woman in a bar who knows how to keep secrets. Tell me your name."

"Alex Miranda."

"Don't fool with me." She crossed her arms and stared, waiting and expectant.

Well sheesh. He glowered for a moment, but there was a soft light of amusement in her eyes that lightened him as well. He shook his head. "What's funny?"

"You."

"Thanks, I guess."

The silence dragged on, broken only by someone playing pool and rattling the balls across the table. He finally ducked his head. "Hamilton."

"What was that?"

"Alexander Hamilton."

Mia blinked. Her brow creased in thought. "The name is familiar. A… a president?"

Alex chuckled. "Naw. This a-hole shot me in the chest before I could attempt that. I was, like, this money guy. Not rich, though, I just handled money."

He was being vague and taking advantage of the fact that Mia probably knew very little about US history. He was oddly grateful she didn't know. People were more familiar with his name than they used to be, and it was more a nuisance than anything. "Basically, I was somebody who thought they were somebody. And here I am again, still thinking I'm somebody. Maybe that Jackson has a point about loops and cycles and all that."

Mia sat down on a stood Alex couldn't see. She waited until he met her eyes. "Nobody, nobody at all, decides who you are, Alex. Perhaps God," she reconsidered, crossing herself. "But no man. No Jackson, not Mia, not your mother or papa or anyone. You. You decide who you want to be, and then you be that. And if you aren't who you want to be, change."

"That's easier said than done."

Mia shrugged. "If you really want to, you will."

He really did wish he could believe that. But he appreciated the effort and gave her a lopsided grin. He finished his drink and stood slowly. Stretched. "I am serious about that psychiatrist thing. You could help a lot of people."

Mia snorted and shook her head. "Money man or no, you are still an idiot."

"Yeah, I know. Keep reminding me."

He walked out of the bar, drunk, but slightly lighter than before.


	3. Chapter 3

Summary: Senator Thomas Jackson has spent the better part of his career swaying the public opinion to the belief that old souls are villainous. Everyone knows only people who screwed up royally in their previous life come back for another chance. They are criminals and should be imprisoned the moment they are discovered. But after a chance meeting with a strangely familiar young man, Thomas's worst fears are animated. A lifetime of his own forgotten memories in his unwieldy hands, Thomas is faced with a decision.

* * *

His headache wasn't going away.

In the last hour, he'd consumed four ibuprofen pills, half a bottle of aspirin, and copious amounts of alcohol.

This was turning out to be a poor decision.

A headache had started just after his speech and had yet to let up. His entire head throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat. He was alone at home and taking one of the very few sick days he could, and he was distantly aware that he should probably call a doctor at this point. Two days of a migraine wasn't normal. Right? Maybe?

He couldn't hold onto a thought long enough to really consider it anyhow.

But he did know now that medicine overdose along with alcohol was a bad plan. Very bad.

He'd been puking in the toilet in the dark in his bathroom for the last twenty minutes.

And all the while his head continued to pound.

This was just some kind of flu. Something he'd caught. But _man_ it was bad.

After what felt like an eternity, his stomach settled slightly. Thomas dropped onto the floor, exhausted, and stayed there with his eyes shut. After a while he had the presence of mind to flush the toilet, but after that, he just sat, trying not to think about anything. Everything hurt. He wiped his mouth with a growl of frustration and got to his feet shakily.

He'd need water and food after that, some part of him supplied. Or he'd faint. Slowly, he stumbled out of the bathroom, down the hall to his immaculate, very seldom used kitchen. All the curtains in the house had been drawn, and every light turned off. So naturally, he tripped over just about everything in his stumbling way to the fridge.

Once reaching the fridge, he kept his eyes shut as he opened it and cool light spilled out. He groped for something to eat and landed on a stick of butter.

Whatever. He'd take it.

His brain buzzed and whizzed around and the next he knew, he was on his couch, the stick of butter in hand, staring blankly at the swirling pattern on his ceiling.

"This sucks," he croaked. "This is a big ol' pile of cow dung, Jeff." He frowned. "Jack… son." Pathetic, really. Honestly, he couldn't even say his name right.

He ate a piece of butter from a trembling hand and cursed the empty house in a general sort of way.

It was then, of course, that his cell phone buzzed. Light flooded the room like laser beams and he groaned, turning his head away.

But it kept on buzzing on the coffee table just a few feet away.

Muttering, he forced himself to sit up, and grab it.

"What?"

A shocked pause. "Oh." It was Maria. "Goodness, you really are sick."

Thomas would have rolled his eyes if that wouldn't have hurt enough to send him to his knees. Instead, he blinked slowly. "Yup. What's wrong?"

She sighed. "Ah, well, I was calling because I've been able to handle all of your responsibilities today thus far, but after that speech, if you disappear for too long-"

"They'll forget about it." She was right. They would. They needed to ride this wave of media presence if they wanted to get somewhere.

"Exactly. They need to keep seeing you. So… when can you come in?"

Thomas exhaled tiredly. "Uh, as soon as I can."

"We really need you here, Mr. Jackson. I understand but-"

"Don't worry," he interrupted. "I want this just as much as the rest of you. I'll be in tomorrow."

He could hear her smile in her voice. "Great! Awesome. Thank you, sir! Please feel better. I will see you tomorrow, then!"

"Tomorrow."

He hung up.

And tossed the phone sloppily across the room.

He'd think about everything... tomorrow.

* * *

From the outside, Alex's record shop looked like one of those crappy corner stores where you buy lottery tickets and cigarettes and people hang to cause trouble. There were bars on the windows and the door needed new paint. It got stuck every time Alex opened it, and he had to shove his shoulder into it get it to work properly.

But Alex didn't care.

He'd poured his heart and soul into this little shop and if his heart and soul looked like a crappy corner store, so be it.

That said, on the inside, he had done everything he could to fix it to exactly his liking. Records of all sorts were stacked in boxes and on the walls and on shelves, and large posters were framed on the walls. There was a semblance of order. It went like this: new stuff, front of the shop, old stuff, back of the shop. And it worked just fine for him. If anyone needed help, they'd ask and he could find them the record in less than thirty seconds. He and his roommate/best friend Jack ran the place and Alex wouldn't have it any other way.

Alex, per usual, shoved open the door. The smell of coffee and warm leather greeted him. There wouldn't actually be any coffee yet, but he'd brewed so much of it inside the tiny shop, the smell was sort of ingrained in the walls. He flicked on the lights and smiled.

In the back of the shop, he'd set up the pay counter, and he had dozens of record players to use. He'd choose a style for the day, usually, and Jack would probably complain about it, but that was okay. He swerved around the randomly placed shelves of records. He did pretty well with this shop. Especially since records were coming back as 'retro' and 'cool'. Whatever. He liked the music and he liked being able to see the music as it spun. He liked the way it sounded and he loved searching for songs. Forgotten songs. Lost songs. Songs so rare, no one had listened to them in decades. He'd dig like some kind of treasure hunter in people's garage sales, obscure auctions, pawn shops, for more music.

And then, if he felt like it, he'd sell his findings.

Before, Alex hadn't had enough time to appreciate such things like music. He'd been so hurried, so desperate to make something of himself, he'd been solely devoted to writing and politics. They were everything.

He didn't have his writings or his political career now. They weren't 'his' anymore.

And funny enough, that was okay. The world would keep on spinning whether or not Alexander Miranda chose to step into the public eye.

However, he would like to make it clear, that he could. He could become all that he was in the 1700s. After all, back then he'd started with absolutely nothing. Even at his lowest moments in this life, he had far more than he had as the young, scrappy, and hungry kid that stumbled off a burning ship into New York without a single friend in the world and nothing but the clothes on his back.

Yeah, if he wanted, Alex could do it again. It would take some luck, but he'd pull it off like he always had.

But, man, he really kinda liked music. And he realized now, he wasn't the type of person that could multi-task. He couldn't listen to music and drink in a bar and dance with pretty girls and- and _live_ if he was constantly waiting to get back to his 'real' life of writing and politics.

So whatever. Yeah, he didn't have much money, yeah he lived in an area that was burgled every other night and drug busted at least once a week, but he didn't mind.

People were as kind as they were bitter, and music had a way of soothing people, making them happier for just a moment. He'd never figured out how to do that as a politician or a soldier.

He'd thought it was just one of those gifts some people had.

Like Eliza. She'd been able to make anyone smile the moment they walked into a room.

And Alex had just assumed he couldn't do that. It occurred to him maybe he hadn't really tried.

He plugged in his favorite player and thumbed through a few of his favorite records. He wasn't a hard core Beetle fan, but they were alright if he was in the mood.

Eh. He wasn't today.

He was still debating between a classical Bach or Kansas when the bell on the front door rang. Kinda. The bell had a tendency to get drowned out by the shoving and pushing and scraping that it took to open the door.

Alex sat down in a swivel chair, hands behind his head, and spun in a circle. "If I look at you, and you look high, Jack, you're going home."

Jack, the roommate, stuck a ruffled head through the door and huffed. "Uh, for your information, I am _clean_."

Alex glanced at him and snorted. "Clean."

The redhead, almost-former druggie looked down at his wrinkled t-shirt and jeans and shut the door behind him. "In the substance sense."

"That's nice. Physically clean would be nice too."

Jack glared at him, straightened his jacket with an eye roll, and stomped past him. "I'll wash my face in the sink." He opened the back door and left it open behind him.

"There are a washcloth and some spare clothes back there too, I think." Alex had put some in there when he wasn't sure whether he'd be able to keep up his half of the apartment rent. He grinned and used his legs to push the swivel chair halfway off the ground. He could just see Jack enter the bathroom. "You're the best!" He added with cheeriness he knew Jack would find extremely grating.

"You're the worst," came his muffled reply.

Alex chuckled and went back to searching through his stack of records. He liked old music as much as he liked new music. And when he said old music, he meant like, the stuff people tended to just lump together as either 'hymn church stuff' or 'classic ugh so boring' as well as the music made in the early twentieth century.

He chose something at random and clicked it in place.

Mozart. Piano softly washed over the room. Now that kid been something of a phenomenon. Jefferson had detested him if he remembered correctly. Wouldn't play any of his music. Alex had no idea why, just that Jefferson had always been very irritated whenever someone attempted to play it. Alex chewed his lip. See, this was the thing about old music. It was flypaper for memories. Even now, if he played the song he and Eliza had first danced to, he'd be thrown back to that hot summer night and the feeling of the blue silk dress beneath his sweaty fingers. Her light touch on his shoulder and his equally gentle touch on the small of her back. It had been humid and the hosts ran out of punch halfway through the night, he recalled. But it had been some kind of magical time anyhow.

He was usually very careful about which old music he played, just in case it was too much for him that day.

With a sigh, Alex pushed himself out of the chair, stretched his back, and started the coffee machine beneath the counter. He didn't actually like coffee, but the caffeine was too large of an asset. He needed caffeine.

Once enough for a cup had brewed, Alex quickly removed the pot, poured the coffee into his cup, and hastily thrust it back under the hot stream. There was probably a reason the coffee machine was stained brown. He smirked, wrapped his hands around the hot mug, took a sip, and bent under the counter to continue his never-ending task of sorting. He'd come back yesterday from a day of hunting with a dozen new records that needed a home in the shop.

He'd done this for a few minutes when someone shoved on the door. Alex frowned. That was unusual. People were not often here this early.

With an armful of records in one arm and his coffee cup in the other hand, he struggled to stand.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you."

The records slipped, but suddenly someone was there, taking hold of a bunch and setting them down on the counter. Alex smiled. "Thanks,"

"You are very welcome. Pardon me, but are you, Alex or Jack, sir? The sign outside said Alex and Jack's Records and I… I… Are you alright?"

Alex stared, horrified. He had gotten very good at recognizing people. Mia had been right. It was in the eyes. He couldn't do it every time, but sometimes...

And there was no way he would ever forget the eyes looking at him right now.

"B-Burr?"

The man frowned, confused. He was a dark-skinned, smartly dressed man with close cut hair and a very familiar cautious, concerned smile. "It's Barron, actually."

The coffee cup slipped from Alex's fingers, and the moment broke. Alex cursed and jumped back from the hot liquid. "Oh jeez, S-sorry, sir. I- no, I'm, this is fine. I'll just clean it up."

"Here, I'll help."

Burr- Barron- whatever, leaned forward and Alex jerked back as if burned. "No. Really. I have a cloth right here."

Which he did. He was always spilling coffee it seemed.

He bent beneath the counter, and once he was hidden, waves of terror crashed through him.

Terrified wasn't exactly what he thought he'd feel like if he ever ran into him. But here they were. His hands shook as he scooped up the coffee and deposited the broken ceramic into a small trash can.

Good enough.

It was obvious Burr didn't remember. Otherwise, he would have reacted when Alex said his name. So… there was nothing to do. Nothing but serve him as he would serve any other customer. It wouldn't be fair to him otherwise.

When did his life get so complicated?

Taking a deep breath, Alex wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. He forced a smile. "Sorry about that. And, I'm Alex."

Burr laughed easily and shrugged. "Nice to meet you. And don't sweat it. We all have days like that."

"I tend to have quite a lot of them." Alex laughed nervously.

Look at him. Small talking with his freaking murderer.

"So," Alex gestured at the records around them. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Looking for something specific." Please say no.

"Actually I am. I'm," He smiled sheepishly. Burr, being sheepish. What the actual heck. "I'm a history teacher, and, I swear this is relevant, there's a piece of music that was composed during the eighteenth century that I heard about at some point. And anyway, I thought it would be interesting to show it to the students. But, I can't for the life of me find it anywhere. I asked around and, long story short, they said you were my best bet for rare music."

Alex bobbed his head. Probably too many times. "So, you're teaching like, world history?"

"American. Revolutionary War, actually."

Alex's voice cracked. "Oh."

There was an awkward pause. Alex cleared his throat. "So, do you know the name of the song? The composer? Year it was made?"

Burr chewed his lip. "I… I remember learning that Thomas Jefferson, the president, I mean, was fond of it. He was there when it was composed. A friend of his was the composer."

Alex racked his brain, wondering where he'd picked up something so obscure, but shook his head. Alex hadn't exactly been on speaking terms with Jefferson. "Sorry, man. I'd need more information than that."

Burr sighed. "It was a long shot anyhow. Do you have anything from that time period?"

Oh did he.

He forced himself to think. A businessman. He was being a businessman. "Uh, um, I know Thomas Jefferson liked Bach. A lot."

Jefferson used to hum it obnoxiously loud when Alex was trying to speak.

Burr's eyes lit up. "Anything you can think of. That would be great."

Okay. Alright.

He could find some Bach. Scurrying, Alex got to the back of the room and flipped through several of his classical pieces. He was having a hard time gripping things. Everything kept slipping through his sweaty fingers. Bach. "Here we are." Alex lifted a record. Nearly dropped it. "I don't know how much you know about music-"

"Very little."

Alex did that strange nervous laugh again, fully aware that it would seem profoundly weird to Burr. Barron. Ugh. "Well, anyway, this is great. I read in a history book once that he'd often hum it when he was trying to concentrate, or uh, trying to derail other people's concentration."

Burr laughed. "Alright. That is certainly interesting."

Alex handed him the record. "It's rare, so I doubt you'll find it this old. It was recorded early twentieth century. More authentic, people say."

Shrugging, Burr walked to the counter. Alex scurried after him. "Sounds good."

Alex named his price and Burr paid without complaint. He caught a glimpse into his wallet, and Alex mentally rolled his eyes. Of course, Burr would end up rich. Again. He must have some other source of income. Unless history teachers were usually carrying that much cash these days.

As Burr folded his wallet, Alex couldn't bear the silence. It would eat him up inside. "So, um, Revolutionary War. You know a lot about it. That's like, Founding Fathers, right? Alexander Hamilton and stuff?"

He kicked himself.

Why did he say that? Why the heck did he say that?!

Burr's eyes lit up again. It was strange, so very strange to see him this way. Something had happened after the war. He'd lost that light. And now it was back. "Hamilton. That's not usually one people name. He's a particular favorite of mine."

Alex's stomach fell to his converse. Right. Of course, he was.

"Bit of a prat, but a financial genius. No one ever argued that. And a brilliant lawyer. Did you know he defended one of the first suspects of a murder conviction once America was a nation?"

Yeah. He did.

Alex shook his head. "No. That's pretty cool, though."

Barron stared at something Alex couldn't see but suddenly shook himself. He smiled that sheepish smile once more. "My apologies. I do not mean to give you a history lesson."

Alex tried to keep smiling. "Well, I hope your students enjoy the music. And- and you yourself, sir."

Burr dipped his head. "Thank you for assisting me. Have a good day."

"You too."

With that, he tucked the record under an arm, forced open the door, and exited into the city morning.

Everything froze.

And

Alex fell backward, landing perfectly in his swivel chair. He held up his hands to his face and watched them shake in a detached horror.

"Yo, anyone tell you your clothes look like a Grandad's? Uh, what's up? You look like you saw a ghost." Jack poked his head through the back door, a toothbrush still in his mouth.

Alex laughed, slightly hysterically. "I just sold an antique record to Aaron Burr."

Jack wrinkled his nose, thinking. "Wait, like, the wig and red coat guy in the duel?"

Sure.

Alex was frozen, staring at the place Burr had been standing. He needed composure.

"He told you?"

"Hmm?" Alex forced his eyes away. "Uh. Yeah."

Jack gave him a seriously? look. "And you just let him walk away? Alex, he's a murder! You should have called the police!"

What? Why? "He didn't… he didn't do anything to me, Jack. He just wanted a record to show to his students."

"But, dude, he's _killed_ , someone!"

Alex blinked, crossed his arms and turned his swivel chair to face Jack totally. "More than two hundred years ago. In an entirely different life."

Jack shook his head. "No, no, man. You gotta get out more. They're saying old souls are stuck in loops. They just do the same things they did in their first lives. That's why they're dangerous. He'll kill again if he hasn't already." He cocked his head. "Actually, nevermind. Don't call the police. I think I still have some weed in one of your lockers."

It took Alex a second to register that. He was already thrown by Jack's worldview. " _What_? Dude! You can't just leave weed in the store!"

Jack shrugged. "Sorry?"

Alex sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.

He was going to need more coffee.

* * *

AN: Hey I'm back! Leave a **_review_ **please!


	4. Chapter 4

4

 _He was holding a violin to his neck, nervousness curling in his gut. Sitting at a piano (no, it was a harpsichord) to his left, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on smiled at him. Something melted inside his chest. "Are you ready to commence, Mr. Jefferson?"_

" _At your fancy, Mrs. Wayles." She chuckled, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and leaned in to peer at her music pages. Her hands rested lightly on the keys, and very softly she began. It was beautiful. His heart leapt as it always did in the presence of music._

 _He was nervous because he supposed he was trying to impress her. This woman who was so accomplished musically. He began his violin in his appropriate place, and soon she was singing as well as playing. Halfway through, she suddenly began to laugh. "Oh,_ Thomas, _please. Are you to leave me to sing alone?"_

 _He blinked rapidly. "Ah, um, I did not know whether or not you desired that I-"_

" _Hush." She chuckled. "Sing with me. We shall send those men away." She nodded toward the window. Outside, from the right angle, you could see the front door. Half a dozen men were standing hesitantly on the porch. Thomas's stomach curdled. He knew at once who they were. Other suitors. His competitors, he supposed._

" _Do not be contrary, Mr. Jefferson. Sing with me. If they hear us together, I imagine they will not attempt to knock."_

 _Thomas frowned at her, confused. "And why is that?"_

 _Mrs. Wayles shrugged. "They will see any attempt to win me is, frankly, hopeless."_

 _Thomas laughed. "Then certainly, I will sing."_

 _And so they sang._

Thomas's eyes flickered open even as he ached to return to the sweet beauty of the strangely vivid dream. He groaned and flopped a hand over his face. The light was bright and a stream of it climbed over his body.

Daylight.

Reality hit him all at once. He cursed and wildly tried to stand, only to tangle in his blanket and land on the floor next to the couch.

He moaned into the carpet. He was late. Really, _really_ late.

On the plus side, his nausea was gone, and his headache had greatly improved. An ibuprofen would help that.

He thrust himself to his feet and flew into his bedroom, pausing dizzily at the door frame. Cursing all the while, he accidentally tried to put his dress shirt on upside down, fixed that, hopped around to get on his pants, grabbed his jacket and tie and shoes and rushed to the bathroom. His hair was crap. He did not have time to change that. He patted it vainly, growled in frustration, and rushed to the door. "They are going to kill me," he nervously sung to himself under his breath, tying his tie. He jerked open the door."They are going to skin me alive if I don't- Ah!"

Mariah jumped back, hand raised to knock. She was just as shocked as he was.

Thomas gaped like a fish. "Mariah! W-what are you doing here?"

Mariah took a second to find her words. "I was coming to find you! You said you would be at work hours ago, and you sounded so sick last night, I-I wanted to see if you were okay."

Thomas blinked. "Uh. Okay. Thanks. I'm much better."

Mariah narrowed her eyes. "You are seven hours late is what you are."

" _Seven hours?_ "

"It's already lunchtime, you imbecile. I had to reschedule your meeting with that senator you were supposed to meet with. Again. Here," she huffed. "Let me do that." She plucked the tie from his fumbling hands and tied it expertly.

Thomas looked down in shock.

"My father couldn't tie his ties any better than you can."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "I'm almost offended by that."

"You don't get to be offended. You get to be exceedingly apologetic to that senator, who you are meeting in thirty minutes, by the way. Tuck your shirt in. And for goodness sake, do something about your hair. You're a senator, not a rapper. Let's go." With that, crossed arms, she spun and clicked down the sidewalk to a black car in her high heels.

Thomas smirked after her.

In the car, Mariah sat across from him, arms still crossed. She squinted at him. "What's up with the eyes?"

Thomas groaned. "My eyes are screwed up now, too?"

"Yes… actually." Her irritation quickly turned to concern. She leaned closer to his face. "Have you always had Sectoral heterochromia?"

"Sectoral what?"

Chewing her cheek, she dug in her purse and took out a makeup mirror/blush clam… thingy and handed it to him. Thomas wrinkled his nose cheekily. "I'm already pretty enough, thanks."

"Give me anymore sass and you can do your own paperwork."

Thomas sat back with a tight-lipped smile. "Woah, Woah, lady. No need to go to such drastic means."

"Just look, will you?"

Fine. "I think I know what my own eyes look like, Mariah." He clicked open the mirror and held it up to his face. First to the right eye… and then the other. "I mean, it's… it's…"

He dropped the mirror.

"What on earth?"

He held the mirror up again. His left, normally completely dark brown iris, now had a murky, vaguely triangular shaped slice of… blue. Bright blue. In the upper half.

"That's… weird."

He didn't have any other words for it.

"Maybe something stuck in it?" Mariah supplied.

"Maybe," he muttered. From a distance, it might look that way, but up close it was obvious. No, the eye color itself was entirely different.

Frowning, he gave Mariah back her mirror. "Huh. It's probably just a fluke."

Mariah shook her head. "That is a ridiculous thing I have ever heard you say. And you have said a lot of ridiculous things!"

"Hey now!"

"You need to get that checked out by a doctor. People's eyes don't change like that all of the sudden."

They rolled to a stop and Thomas lifted his hands in surrender. "I'll see a doctor about it. Scouts honor."

Mariah replied with only a frustrated huff. She exited the car, and Thomas did as well. He buttoned his top button as he stood, and frowned at his surroundings. The neighborhood was exceedingly expensive. The houses could hardly be called houses. Mansions, maybe. Castles, more like. Thomas whistled in appreciation. "Where are we?"

"That newly elected senator's house." Mariah started a quick clip toward the (freaking castle) they'd parked alongside. A driver was already preparing to park their car, and Thomas had to crane his neck to see the top of the old house as they drew nearer. He registered her words. "Uh, _we're_ meeting _him_? Shouldn't he be coming to us?"

"He was. But given that I canceled on him no less than _three times_ I thought it pertinent to show our humility and complete sincerity by making the drive ourselves."

Okay, so she was still pissed. Thomas didn't think it wise to argue.

They reached the front door, and Thomas chuckled. "I mean, senators get the dough, but how does a senator get _this much_?"

"He is exceedingly lucky," said a voice from behind them.

Thomas spun around, mouth open and dangling. He cursed himself inwardly. A young man in a suit exited a black SUV with an easy smile and something cardboard cradled in his arms. He had a casual, sophisticated air. Everything under control.

"Uh," Thomas started. "That was… I am, so sorry. We are making ourselves out to be very foolish, aren't we?" Thomas stuck his hand out. "Thomas Jefferson. Again, I am so sorry for the inconvenience we have caused you."

The senator shook Thomas's hand. "Thomas Jefferson?"

Thomas blinked a few times, trying to figure out what the man was asking. "Oh, um, no, I meant Jackson. I haven't slept lately, I'm afraid."

The senator nodded understandingly. "Aaron Barron, Senator for Wisconsin, and owner of this inherited old family house." He smirked. "If you were curious."

"I…um, yeah, I was curious."

Barron chuckled. He shifted the cardboard thing in his arms. "Well, I am going to just put this inside. I tutor a few children from my hometown and thought they might want to listen to this… but, that is inconsequential." He laughed. "Anyway, then I think we'll go to lunch, yes?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Sure. Whatever." What was _wrong_ with him? Could he make himself look any more ridiculous? Thomas kept smiling.

As soon as Barron was out of sight, Mariah growled in frustration. "For heaven's sake, Jackson. You are a politician. Have a little tack."

Thomas patted his hair nervously. "I know. I'm just having an off day, I guess."

"Then stop that. We need this guy on our side when things get tight."

Thomas glared at her. "I _know_."

"Act like it."

He crossed his arms, intent on ignoring her, but she continued to glare with even more heat. After a second, he couldn't stand it. "Okay," he conceded with not a little sarcasm. "Yes, ma'am. Sheesh."

* * *

This one is a bit short, but more is on the way! Fun fact, the dream at the beginning is based on a true story (probably) about Thomas and Martha. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed this. Maybe leave a **_review_**?


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